‘So, what do you think?’
‘Well, you know, people don’t like rain.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Plunk could see his underling was not impressed. ‘What’s the matter, Semblin?’
‘Only where do you think people will get their water from… sir?’
Plunk shrugged. ‘From the river, as usual, I suppose.’
Semblin took a breath. ‘And where does the river come from?’
‘What?’ Plunk had never thought much about the river, except when he woke up to find it in his house when it burst its banks after a particularly heavy downpour.
‘The river… sir, where does it come from?’
Plunk stared at Semblin. Until he’d been made a weather god… the Weather God, he’d never been out of his village, except to take his ducks to the market in the nearest town. ‘The river is the river.’ The river was a fact of Plunk’s life, like the ducks, like the rain.
‘The river comes from the mountains.’
‘Well, that’s fine then.’ Plunk made a show of tidying the papers on his desk, reminding himself about needing to learn to read.
Plunk looked up. Semblin had made no move towards the door. ‘Maybe I should explain?’ Semblin looked towards the chair in front of Plunk’s desk.
‘Do you have to?’
‘Oh, all right.’ Plunk gestured towards the seat and sighed. It was going to be another one of those days, he knew it.